


Foreign Correspondence

by Rosa52



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7806376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosa52/pseuds/Rosa52
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bartlet administration's favorite foreign correspondent is MIA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreign Correspondence

“Is she in?” Carol shot up from her desk as soon as Josh rounded the corner, stopping him in his tracks with a look. “Josh… She’s been on edge all day. She snapped at Sam earlier when he asked about a column she mentioned at the briefing last week. She’s been in her office all afternoon, working, but not really working. I walked in while she was on a call, and I swear she was barely even listening to the phone, just refreshing the Post’s website.”

Josh hesitated, seriously considering just turning on his heel and walking back to where Donna was probably still talking about OSHA or alpine skiing. “Why are you telling me this?” Carol looked at him impatiently, then let out a breath. “You’re not on her schedule this afternoon. I know your meeting got canceled, and I’m sorry you’re at loose ends, but unless there’s some kind of crisis – and nobody’s acting like there’s a crisis - if you’re bored and just looking to be a jackass with an audience… go somewhere else.” Half amused, half insulted, Josh started to respond, but his retort caught in his throat as the full weight of what Carol had said sank in.

“You said she was refreshing the Post’s homepage? Do you have a copy of today’s paper?”

“If I get you one, will you go away?”

“That depends. Let me see the paper.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Carol, I promise not to do anything gratuitously nasty. Hand me the paper, please.”

“Any particular section?”

Josh felt a sudden rush of air as the door to CJ’s office opened. “It should be on C1, above the fold,” she said quietly, “but you don’t need to waste your time. I read the whole paper. It isn’t there. What do you need, Josh?” CJ stood straight in the door, posture like a soldier. From what Carol had told him, he’d expected to see anger – had immediately tensed up for a fight – but CJ just looked exhausted.

“Have you heard from him?” he asked, scanning her face for any hint of a response.

“What do you need, Josh?” Meeting her eyes, he stepped into her office and closed the door. “It’ll wait, CJ. Have you heard from him?”

“Josh, he’s a foreign correspondent. I don’t _expect_ to hear from him." “But you _did_ hear from him,” he argued, leaning against her desk as CJ sank onto the couch. “There were the emails, at least one from each of the last three posts that you told us about, and you printed out the pictures he sent you from Morocco and the Congo – not just on printer paper, actual 8x11 glossies –“ CJ shot to her feet. “How the _hell_ do you know that?” “I opened your desk drawer a month ago. You had Danny in it.” CJ sat back down, incredulous. “For God’s sake, Josh,” she hissed. “Oh, come on,” Josh replied. “And the Congo photo was practically in plain view, right on the shelf with your rosary. And he sent you a package just barely after Valentine’s Day from Mexico City, with the candy and the little paper fish cut-outs, and –“ He would have continued, but CJ, head in her hands, interrupted. “Josh, _stop_. Please stop. He’s working abroad. I haven’t heard from him in almost two months, and there’s no reason I would. We’re not family, we aren’t dating - we were friends, and I barely even gave him that much. I couldn’t give more. I can’t regret that.” Josh opened his mouth to interject, but CJ wasn’t done. “His columns are his letters home. There was supposed to be a follow-up on the Ebola piece he did last week, and there isn’t one. I don’t know if he’s in Liberia, or Sierra Leone, or somewhere else entirely, but there was supposed to be a column and it's not there.”

“Did you write him back, CJ?” CJ’s head shot up, eyes wounded, but Josh couldn’t stop from asking, “When he emailed you, did your respond?” “What kind of a question is that, Josh?” CJ felt her eyes fill, but willed them not to spill over. “ _Yes_ , I responded. I wrote him back. But he’s in places with spotty internet, and working with a satellite phone, and I just – maybe I didn’t say the right thing in my responses.”

Josh’s assumption that she would have ignored Danny – _could_ have ignored Danny – stung more than it should have, considering how often she’d told her coworkers that she was rebuffing Danny’s advances. She’d always thought Josh saw through that, but maybe she had him fooled. And CJ had to admit that she’d thought about not answering Danny’s emails. He’d left with no warning. She’d stared angrily at his seat in the briefing room for longer than she cared to admit. The hurt and anger had subsided to a dull ache, but she still hated what he’d done. When his first email came, she spent a whole day righteously telling herself that she was going to ignore it – teach him what being cut off without warning felt like. She’d even tried to sell herself on the idea that it would be kinder, easier on them both to just let their friendship – and whatever else they’d had – fade away gradually. Then again, as much as she’d she’d thought about ignoring him, she’d thought even more often about calling him, about visiting him, about the kiss they would share when she stepped off the plane.

CJ snapped out of her reverie to find Josh staring at her like he expected her to say something else. At a loss, she shook her head. “I don’t know. But there was supposed to be a column. There’s a column pretty much every week. Last week’s column specifically said it was a two-parter, with the next section coming out today.” Josh nodded slowly, clearly considering the possibilities. CJ, already past that, watched him think as waves of flat, cold dread lapped at her stomach.

“Have you called his editor at the Post?” he offered, “Just to ask? I mean, maybe it was their error. Or it got in late and it’ll hit print tomorrow, or –“ CJ couldn’t let him finish his list of hypotheticals. “I’ve been refreshing their website every – God, it was every hour, and now it’s down to every ten minutes.” She looked Josh in the eye, steadier now. “It’s not coming up. Josh, I can’t call.”

“Why, because it would seem unprofessional?” Clearly frustrated, Josh stood up from the desk, stepping toward her. “CJ, you were friends. He worked here. They might not tell you, but it’s not so strange that you would ask.” CJ leaned back into the couch, exhausted. “ _No_ , Josh. Because if I call to ask, then something’s wrong. And I can’t have something being wrong for Danny when Danny’s on the other side of the world.”

“I’ll call. I’ll call right now. Do you want me to do it here, where you’ll know what I know, or in my office, where you can pretend it isn’t happening?”

CJ took a deep breath. “Gee, maybe you should write down what they tell you and put it in your desk drawer, and I’ll check it out when I go snoop through your papers later.” It was a half-hearted slap at him, far below her usual standard. Not bothering to respond, Josh just stared at her, waiting. “Here. _God_ , Josh, do it here. If I know you’re calling, then I can’t pretend it isn’t happening. Put it on speaker.”

Josh grabbed the receiver, then paused. “What’s the number?” Impatiently, CJ snapped, “How would I – _Carol_!” “Yeah?” “I need – “ Josh waited, but CJ seemed frozen, unable to get the words out. “Danny Concannon’s editor at the Washington Post, Carol,” he called. “That’s who we need.” “I’ll find out who that is.” Moments later, stood in the doorway of CJ’s office. “His editor is Mercedes Garcia. She was in a meeting when I called, but her assistant can have her call you back. Is there anything specific you want me to tell her?” CJ stared blankly at Carol for a moment, mouth dry, heart pounding. “No,” she responded slowly. “Just… Just have her call me here as soon as she can. I’ll be here until… I’ll be here.” Carol nodded, stepping back to her desk and picking up the receiver. Her voice floated in through the doorway, brisk and efficient, so normal that it was almost abrasive. “Hello? Yes, I’m here. Just as soon as she can call, please.”

Josh exhaled, staring defeatedly at the phone on CJ’s desk. “Do you want me to stay, CJ? My meeting got canceled – I can just work in here. Or you can call me when she calls. You just –“ “Josh?” came Carol’s voice from outside the door. “Yeah.” “I’ve got Donna on the line – she says the meeting’s on for 2:00 now. Toby wants you in his office beforehand.” Frustrated, Josh looked at CJ, curled into the arm of the couch. “CJ, I’ll come back. I’ll –“ Eyes huge in her pale face, CJ looked back at him, shaking her head. “No, Josh, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” Josh hesitated, but he had to go. “CJ, you don’t have to tell me what you learn – but I would like to know. And no matter what, you don’t have to do this alone. I’ll be here late if you need me.”

The rest of the day dragged on. It felt almost like being underwater, CJ noted – even the afternoon briefing seemed a little muted, a little soft around the edges, as if it were being shouted above the surface. At 7:30, she sat in her office, holding a cold cup of coffee and watching Gail patrol her bowl. The dread was still there, but the edge of nausea had subsided. Her worry was so familiar now that it felt almost comforting. At 8:15, though, the phone on her desk rang, and suddenly, the tide went out. Heart racing, throat tight, CJ reached for the receiver. She paused, struggling to force herself to speak; a voice on the other end broke the silence. “Hello? This is Mercedes Garcia, from the Washington Post.” CJ breathed deep, hoping the other woman didn’t notice. “Yes,” she responded. “This is CJ Cregg.”

“How can I help you, CJ?” Another deep breath. The voice on the other end was professional, but warm; CJ strove for the same tone as she considered her answer. How could she help? _Send Danny back_ , CJ thought immediately. Send him to the White House, where he would be safe. Or better yet, the local desk at the Post. Hell, _shackle_ him to the local desk. She’d come by every day and see him, and in the meantime, no one would shoot him or give him Ebola, and nobody’s professional ethics would be compromised if they kissed. Except maybe his editor’s ethics, for shackling him to the desk in the first place, but... “Ms. Cregg?” “Yes. I apologize. Ah, I was calling in reference to a column from last week – Danny Concannon’s column about Ebola in Liberia. The President read it, as did a number of senior staffers. It was mentioned at a briefing. There was supposed to be a follow-up article this week, but it didn’t run in today’s paper, and I was just calling to find out… why.” It sounded as if Mercedes Garcia took a deep breath of her own; her exhale crackled softly over the line, sounding somehow soothing, even as CJ tried to steel herself for the worst. “You… you know Danny, don’t you? You worked with him?” CJ’s hands started shaking. “Yes,” she responded, waiting. Needing to fill the silence, she continued, “He followed the campaign, and he was here in the White House Press Corps for nearly two years of the Bartlet administration, plus the years he had before we got here.” “Right. Well. The thing is, we haven’t heard from Danny since he sent us the article last week. He was supposed to check in three or four days ago, send a draft, that kind of thing, but he… didn’t. We have someone in Liberia asking around – he started looking for Danny about two days ago in Monrovia, but it’s possible that Danny went to visit a hospital in Sierra Leone. It was something he was interested in for the follow-up piece.” CJ started to take notes, but her hands were shaking too much to write legibly. She laid the pen down as Danny’s editor continued. “We’re calling reporters from other papers, calling anyone we know he interviewed. We called the American Embassy today. They say they’ll start checking jails and hospitals soon. And I wouldn’t tell you this – I would just say what a great writer Danny is, and how crazy a foreign correspondent’s life can be, and how excited we are for that follow-up – but you know him. And he knows you. Actually, CJ…” _Jails and hospitals_. CJ couldn’t breathe. A high, shrill tone seemed to be ricocheting around the inside of her skull. “CJ?” Forcing herself to focus, CJ responded. “Yes? I’m here.” “Danny had… a kind of a joke, I think, when he switched to my desk. We were talking about the White House beat, and he made me promise that, if I ever met you, which I never thought I would, I would ask you – how’s your fish?” CJ’s sob started low in her chest, low enough that she was almost able to stifle it completely. _The damn fish_. Damn Danny. It was so like him that she could practically see him laughing at his own joke. Another sob, this one half laugh at the absurdity of the whole mess, escaped. “She’s fine, Ms. Garcia. Thank you for asking. If you talk to – when you find Danny, you tell him my fish is fine. And – if you don’t mind, when you find him, will you let me know? I – we loved him here. He’s very much missed.” “Yeah, CJ. I’ll let you know. Have a good night.”

CJ put the phone down, put her head on her desk, and wept. When the tears stopped, she sat there thinking, her head lifted just enough to see Gail swimming.

By 10 PM, she had made up her mind several different ways, several different times. She had lifted the receiver of the phone on her desk, only to put it down decisively – and then pick it back up again. Finally, she rose from her desk, strode to the door, and walked straight into Josh. He took one look at her tear-stained face and asked, “She called?” CJ nodded, stepping aside to let him into her office. “Danny’s been missing for at least two or three days. I mean, that’s how long they’ve been looking. They have someone on the ground, and they called the US Embassy in Monrovia to help them check hospitals and jails. There’s a chance he went to Sierra Leone. And Josh, I was wondering – can _we_ call the US Embassy in Monrovia? Just, you know, to tell them to hurry? That the White House is worried?” CJ paused, waiting for his answer. He leaned against her desk, thinking. “It would probably be more appropriate to call the State Department. Let them call the embassy, handle all of that,” he said slowly. CJ’s shoulders slumped, barely discernibly, and Josh sighed. “But this is Danny. And this is you.” CJ’s head snapped up, eyes a little wild. “I – “ “No, CJ. This is Danny, and this is you. And I don’t think calling the Embassy is the worst way I’ve jumped the red tape, even just this week.” He paused. “I’m assuming that you did mean for _me_ to call the embassy when you said we. Because if you’d meant you, you would already have done it. Did you want Leo, or – “ “No,” CJ said forcefully. “The higher up we go, the less likely this is to happen.” Josh nodded, then ducked out into the hall to look at the world clocks. “Liberia’s four hours ahead of us,” he called, walking back in. “And I… I would call, CJ, I would. But I don’t think they’d answer. I think we have to do this in the morning.” “OK,” she said quietly. “You’re right. And Josh – thank you.”

When Josh left that night, the light in CJ’s office was still on. He’d sat with her past midnight, working on her couch, quietly worrying. His great achievement for the evening was bullying her into sharing the beer and pizza he'd ordered; his great failure was that every suggestion that she go home was gently rebuffed. Suspecting that she was planning to sleep on her office couch, he considered sleeping on his office floor, just so she would have someone nearby. As if CJ could read his mind, though, she looked him square in the eye and told him to go home. “None of your work has to be ready first thing,” she said quietly. “I’m all right; I’ll see you tomorrow.” He considered waking Liberia up at 5 AM, just so he could have done everything in his power, but as he began to formulate the offer, CJ firmly said, “ _Go_.”

Two days later, no one had found Danny. It had been naïve, Josh decided, to expect that just calling the Embassy to tell them that the missing reporter was being missed by the leader of the free world (or at least, his staff) would get Danny back by lunchtime. If he was honest with himself, though, that was exactly what he had expected. _Click your heels together three times and say “White House,”_ he thought sourly. There was no news on Danny, and with each passing day, he watched CJ fade a little more. She still did her job, still handled every briefing, but she was quiet and pale, and the shadows under her eyes were like bruises.

CJ was quietly losing her mind. Her eyes felt like there was cracked glass behind the lids; she was afraid to sleep in case the phone rang. She knew she had eaten, because Carol made her; she knew she had showered, because she was a damn professional. She briefed the press and met with the staff, but unless she absolutely had to leave her office, she stayed behind her desk, within reach of her phone. Somehow, she had figured that Josh calling the Embassy – really, just the fact that the White House was looking for Danny Concannon – would get him found. The picture of Danny in Congo really was in plain view, now, right on her desk. She had taken to holding her rosary beads while she worked, running them through her fingers as she attempted to keep her thoughts in check. She re-read his emails, all silly and brave and kind, and tried to not to wonder which was worse – Danny in some jail in Liberia – but for _what_? – or in a Sierra Leonian hospital during an Ebola outbreak. Of course, even trying to keep herself off that path meant acknowledging the comparison. Swearing viciously under her breath, rosary in hand, she stared at the glossy photo on her desk. _Damn Danny anyway_ , she thought, for being the kind of man you couldn’t _not_ love, and then heading for every country where it seemed you couldn’t _not_ die. If he couldn’t have stayed at the White House, couldn’t he have taken his Pulitzer to Cleveland, or Portland, or some safe, dull city? Nowhere with any supermodels, thank you very much, or really any women who might see a man that good and be ready to build a life with him. _The Vatican_ , CJ thought with a burst of enthusiasm, before she remembered that Rome had women, and that sending Danny to Rome was still sending Danny away.

CJ lay her head in her arms, the rosary forgotten. And damn you, too, Claudia Jean, she thought, for wanting all of your career but begrudging him all of his.

Gail swam sedately in her bowl.

Damn Danny anyway.

She must have slept, she decided, and for a fairly long time, based on the deep creases the papers on her desk had left on her face. She debated looking for a reflective surface to find out whether her face was covered in smudged ink, but as she straightened to consider her options, she realized what had awakened her: the phone was ringing. Her eyes snapped open, and her heart stopped before picking back up at a frantic pace. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello?” Disappointment swamped her. “Ah, no. The statement you sent over was… was fine. … That’s right. Thank you.” The spokesman for the secretary of… transportation, she decided, made some inane comment about how he’d expected to get voicemail, calling this late. “Ha. Yes, well. Always a pleasure to speak to you. Good night.” Setting down the phone, CJ was swept by a low tide of anguish. Maybe she should just go home, she thought, running a hand through her hair. She could take a personal day, draw the blinds, cry. Leo would allow it. He’d been briefed on Danny, had met with representatives from Sierra Leone and Liberia. It wasn’t like her being tethered to her desk was getting Danny found. She turned toward the door and hit the lights, only to hear the phone ring again. Probably someone else looking to reach her voicemail, she thought dispassionately – but she couldn’t quite make up her mind to ignore it, because _what if_.

Danny Concannon felt like hell. He’d never been much for hospitals – the faint sting of antiseptic, the flowers, the squeaky-wheeled gurneys, the undertone of anguish. He probably could have guessed that hospitals in Sierra Leone would be a whole different ballgame, but he never would have opted to find that out as a patient. Here he was, though. Johnny, the young Liberian man his editor had sent out to find him, sat by his bedside looking relieved. “All things considered,” he told Danny, “A car crash is the best bad thing that could have happened to you.” Danny eyed him, wondering if he’d be out of line if he told Johnny to go to hell. “This hospital is one of the best in Sierra Leone. It has more supplies than just about any other. And you got hurt, but none of your symptoms looked like Ebola, so you… you didn’t go to the Ebola ward.” Danny sighed. Granted, the Ebola ward was pretty much exactly where he’d wanted to go, but again – not as a patient. “Put that way, Johnny, I guess you have a point.” “Do you feel up to talking on the phone?” Johnny asked. “Mercedes wants to let me know I missed my deadline?” Danny quipped. “No, I – I spoke to Mercedes already,” Johnny assured him. “But she told me she’d heard from a friend of yours in DC. A lady you worked with, I think? From the White House. Mercedes seemed to think this lady would want to hear from you as soon as you felt up to it.” Confused at first, Danny wondered which of the White House reporters had managed to get his editor on the phone. Katie, maybe, he considered, or Chris – and then a thought struck him. A wave of warmth traveled up his aching body. Danny couldn’t keep a wondering smile from his face. A world away, and all he had to do to get CJ Cregg on the phone was get hit by a truck. Johnny cleared his throat, making Danny realize he hadn’t responded yet. “Ah, I –“ Johnny half laughed. “You would like to talk to her. It’s late there, but I’ll try to put it through.”

Refusing to get her hopes up too high, CJ didn’t bother turning the lights back on. Leaning on her desk, she lifted the receiver to her ear with a sigh. “Hello?” “Ms. Cregg?” came the voice of the switchboard operator. “You have a call from Sierra Leone.” CJ fumbled for her desk lamp and willed herself to breathe. “Connect me, please.” Half-remembered prayers flitted through her mind, compressing themselves into a breathless internal chant of _pleasepleaseplease_ as CJ waited for a voice to bridge the crackling connection. “CJ?” The voice sounded exhausted, a little fuzzy, but it was unmistakably Danny. CJ’s spine seemed to dissolve as relief swamped her. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “ _Danny_ , oh my _God_ , where… how are you?”

She sounded wrecked, Danny noted with concern. OK, a little satisfaction, too – CJ had been worried – but mostly concern. “I’m OK,” he said, striving for nonchalance. “A little misunderstanding with a truck. I was unconscious for a couple days, and then… well, my Krio isn’t so good, and my ID and all got lost. Maybe stolen before I woke up, maybe burnt up in the accident, I dunno.” _Burnt_? CJ thought frantically, but Danny was still talking. “Gonna make getting home a treat. Anyway, the doctors were trying to help me, but they’re a little busy, and I wasn’t making much sense. But Johnny, Mercedes’ guy in Liberia, he put out the word that he was looking for a dashing redhead, and he figured out where I was.” A sound that was half laugh, half sob echoed over the line. “CJ… _Hey_. It’s OK. How are you?”

Exhaustion and relief had CJ feeling like her head was floating above her body. “Better now, Danny. Believe that. But are you… how badly are you hurt? You said you were unconscious for days? We can get you… A medevac, or I don’t know –“ “Easy, CJ. It’s all right. I took a couple bad hits, but the doctors say I’ll be as handsome as ever when the swelling goes down. Broken collar bone, broken nose, couple cracked ribs. Little hairline fracture on the skull. They were mostly worried about swelling around my brain, but I think part of the problem gauging how bad I got hurt was that my Krio is shit. You know. Made them think I was real scrambled, or maybe Belgian. Stupidest thing is, the official language of Sierra Leone is English. The hospital staff all speak English. No idea why I was insisting on Krio - guess my concussion made me stubborn. But it looks like there’s no permanent damage, just a hell of a headache and the end of my pro football dreams." He paused, and CJ knew he was trying to subtly find out if she was still crying. She heard the smile in his voice when he quipped, "You didn’t want to be an NFL wife, did you?” CJ couldn’t suppress a snort, and couldn’t force herself to shut him down for mentioning her and “wife” in the same sentence. “I think I’ve had my fill of contact sports, thanks,” she said drily. “Aww, now don’t say that,” Danny wheedled, apparently strong enough to handle an attempt at innuendo. CJ ignored it. “Danny, is the Post getting you to an American hospital? Do they need help? I can make some calls, expedite getting you a passport and getting you the hell back here.” “I’m not sure of the details, but I think my stay in Africa’s getting cut short. For one thing, I’m draining this hospital of resources they can’t afford to lose. Bandages, fluids… Especially fluids, with Ebola and all. Plus,” he added, hoping to distract her from the mention of Ebola, “The entire nursing staff has offered to elope with me. Can’t in good conscience stay here, toying with their hearts when I’m spoken for.”

“ _Danny_ …” CJ’s voice was soft and sad. Danny’s heart twisted a little to hear it, but he wouldn’t apologize for the comment. “I know you don’t think you’ve spoken, CJ,” he said. “I guess… I can’t speak for you, but I’m speaking _to_ you, how about that? Not trying to rush you, just letting you know that I won’t be running off to Paris with every qualified nurse in West Africa.” “I’d pretend I’m not relieved to hear that, Fishboy, but right now, I don’t have the emotional wherewithal to make it seem like I don’t care.” More than a little stunned, Danny took a moment to let that sink in. “When you get back home – and that better be fast, Danny, I mean that – I’ll be here. I can’t promise you anything but that. There are more years in this administration, and I’m not giving any of them up, but… I’m not giving you up, either, unless you tell me you want me to cut line.” Danny blew out a breath. “I don’t, CJ. I don’t want you giving me up.” “Well, then. There’s gonna be some time between you getting back home and you getting back in my press room, right?” Danny considered his injuries, considered what she might be getting at. “Yeah, that’s right.” “I’ll come nurse you back to health. Bring soup and movies, that kind of thing.” Danny didn’t bother to suppress a smirk, imagining CJ’s bedside manner. “Nurse, huh? You gonna wear the outfit, CJ?” he teased. “What, scrubs and orthopedic shoes?” she asked, feigning ignorance. “A habit and a veil?” “You pretend you don’t have a bustier and a saucy little cap lying around, but I’ve got a hunch that you could pull an ensemble together for me.” “Yeah, keep teasing, Fishboy. The more you joke, the sterner I’ll have to be. Gotta get you well enough for me to grab you and kiss you from time to time.” Danny’s nerves spiked. “That so?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound short of breath over the phone. “That’s so,” she returned, in a tone that he knew was accompanied by one of those smoldering smiles that always left him feeling like an awestruck teenager. From the corner of his eye, Danny saw Johnny walking back toward him, apologetically gesturing for Danny to wrap it up. “Well, I’m gonna hold onto that til I see you, CJ,” he said gently. “And I’ll let you go for tonight. Get some sleep, all right?” There was a long pause, followed by a quiet sigh. “Yeah, Danny. You rest, too. I… I’ll see you soon.” The line went dead, and Danny lay back a moment, cradling the phone against his heart. It wasn’t everything, but he’d traveled much farther for a lot less than a guarantee that CJ Cregg would be grabbing him and kissing him.


End file.
